Her Smiles are Sharp
by Cornfieldsandcats
Summary: Sansa has been controlled and abused, she understands the inner workings of a mad man. So when she is married off to Ramsay Bolton, she decides that she will survive no matter what. It is her turn to be the master of her own life. She will make Ramsay Bolton love her, and he will be under her power. Their blades may be sharp, but her mind is sharper, and they will not frighten her.


_This is an alternate universe story in which Sansa manipulates Ramsay in a similar way that Margaery manipulated Joffery. She is smart enough to know by now how to do that, she needs no saving or rescuing in this world. I wanted to portray her as how I had hoped she would have acted. This story spans over a very inconsistent timeline because I'm not really sure how many days or weeks pass in the show since it's kind of not specific. This story is mostly a twisted SansaxRamsay but it ends with a different pairing._

Their blades may be sharp, but her mind is sharper.

When she is taken back North, back to her home, she is filled with a sort of nervous dread that reminds her of the day before her father's beheading. And she does not like that feeling, does not like the way that it reminds her of the sight of her father's head and the smell of his blood. But she is nobody, a bastard girl named Alayne Stone, so she cannot say anything to her 'father,' she cannot protest or deny his wishes. After all, he had kept her alive against all the odds, he saved her from King's Landing, killed her mad Aunt Lysa; he had protected her. She would not, and could not, deny him. Not when he meant to keep her safe.

Littlefinger proposed that she would marry Ramsay Bolton, formerly Ramsay Snow. For a moment, she entertained thoughts of suicide, of killing herself and Littlefinger. But instead of crying or screaming, she thought. Perhaps it was not the way she imagined it, but she would be back in Winterfell, she would be the wife of the Warden of the North one day, and her sons would rule after him. How dearly she wanted for her sons to never experience what she had, and the way to ensure that was to marry Ramsay Bolton. And so she said yes to Littlefinger's proposition with little emotion on her pretty face.

As they continued to travel North Sansa sat silently, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. They all called her beautiful, in the North, in the South, East and West. That much she knew. For a time, she had caught Joffery's eye, but her comely face had not been enough to keep her safe. She wondered if it would be enough to be pretty for her new husband. Perhaps not, if his father was so cruel and treacherous, it was likely that his sire was the same. Perhaps he would hurt her like Joffery's kingsguard had hurt her.

The mere idea of that happening again caused her lip to curl and her blood to boil. No; Winterfell was her home and she would not allow for such treatment, no matter how bloodthirsty this Ramsay Bolton would be. As she thought on the subject Margaery's manipulations came to her mind, Sansa knew of how the little rose of Highgarden watched Joffery and understood his twisted mind just enough for her own safety. And in that moment, Sansa Stark knew that was what she had to do. No matter what happened, no matter how cruel or abhorrent Ramsay Bolton was, she would force him to love her.

Winterfell was far different from when she was last there, but it still warmed her heart to see the familiar stone walls and to hear the sounds of Wintertown. It is different, yes, but it is her home, even if the Boltons called it theirs. She would not be frightened, no, she was a child of the North, and she would not allow herself to show any fear. As she was introduced to Ramsay, she forced herself to look passed his parentage, and the glint of cruelty that she found lingering in his ice-blue eyes. He was handsome, and strong of body, but like most men, he would be weak of mind. Easy to fool, to trick.

Not long after, Littlefinger departed from Winterfell, leaving her alone with the family that killed her mother and brother. But she kept her back straight, chin up, eyes defiant. She would not cower under their cold stares or derisive sneers.

Upon recognizing the shriveled and cowed man that was once Theon Greyjoy, Sansa had to stifle her fear, stifle the disgust. She reminded herself how he killed her brothers, how he burned Winterfell and destroyed the only home she had left. If it wasn't for him, perhaps Robb would have won the war, perhaps everything would have been different. But perhaps was only a word, and all the songs were lies, and dreams were for children. So instead, she spit at his feet and turned on her heel. No matter how pathetic he was, he had earned no forgiveness from her. He deserved nothing.

On the first night, she dined with Lord and Lady Bolton, her fiance at her side. They spoke of trivial things, until they asked her if it was strange being in Winterfell. She took a sidelong glance towards Ramsay, noting how he was watching her every move, and spoke. "Indeed, it is strange being in Winterfell, especially since that disgusting Greyjoy traitor ravaged it so horribly that some parts are still unrecognizable- but your rebuilding efforts are lovely, Lord Bolton. I daresay that the marks left by that Ironborn scum will be nonexistent by the end of winter." She forced a dazzling smile on her face, equal parts lovely and razor sharp.

Ramsay's face had broken into a grin, one full of malice and perhaps anticipation. Sansa took the opportunity to turn to him with another smile. "More wine please!" he called out, and Sansa gritted her teeth and clutched her knife tightly between her fingers as Theon entered the room, ghastly and weak. Ramsay's voice held a certain wicked amusement as he spoke.

"I heard you two had been reunited, what a fitting place for it. I like to imagine the last time you spoke, it was in this very room. Are you still angry with him, after he- what he did? Don't worry, the North remembers. I punished him for it, he's not Ironborn anymore. Not Theon Greyjoy anymore. He's a new man! A new person, anyway. Aren't you Reek?" Theon turned around, his eyes directed at the floor and his hands shaking as he nodded and muttered out a 'Yes master.'

Sansa wanted to ask why he was doing this, why he was being so cruel. But she put her hand on his arm, ever so lightly, and she gave him a soft, girlish smile. "I'm glad that you punished him, my Lord, he deserved it. I only wish that I could have witnessed the punishment myself." Ramsay started a bit, looking surprised and dare she say it, aroused, by her proclamation. He floundered for words for only a moment before recovering.

"Ah, uh, yes, Reek owes you an apology." The man turned back to Theon, giving him a patronizing smile. "Apologize to Lady Sansa for what you did. Apologize for murdering her two brothers." Sansa turned her gaze towards Theon, and saw how afraid he was. Although she wished to find forgiveness in her heart for him, all she could feel was loathing, even if he was nothing but a spineless worm.

"I'm sorry." He said simply, without making eye contact.

"Look Lady Sansa in the eye when you apologize to her. An apology doesn't mean anything unless you're looking the person in the eye." And so they continued on in such a way for nearly five minutes until Theon 'properly' apologized. At that opportunity, the malicious glint returned to Ramsay's eyes as he turned his attention to Sansa once more, finally done with his first strange little game, he began a new one. "You know, since he murdered your two brothers, and the rest of your family gone, Reek here is the nearest thing to living kin that you have left." He paused, glancing over at her with a boyish smirk. "Reek! You will give away the bride." Ramsay almost began to speak again, but Sansa found that she could not allow it.

"No!" she snapped, her eyes blazing as she glared at a surprised Ramsay.

"And why is that, my lady?" he questioned in a tone that bordered on dangerous.

"I am to marry you, my lord. I shall be a Bolton, and although we fostered Reek here, he was more of a hostage than a family member. If anything, your father should give me away at the wedding, as he will be my father as well once it is all said and done. I am to be a Bolton, and I shall be treated as such if your father is willing." She spoke swiftly, hiding any hint of desperation in her voice with false confidence. And it worked.

An indulgent smile appeared on Lord Bolton's face as he turned to her. "And so it shall be, Lady Sansa. You will be my good daughter after this wedding, and so you deserve to be treated like the wife of a Bolton, not given away by the man who destroyed her family." Sansa thanked him, struggling to keep the triumphant grin away from her lips.

A woman by the name of Myranda bathed her, and tried to be threatening, albeit in a very pathetic way. Talking of dead girls killed by Sansa's future husband, talked of how he bored of them, and then hunted them. Sansa knew all of death, knew all about manipulation and the cruelty of mankind. Hearing the petty, jealous girl speak only served to annoy her. "Myranda is it? Perhaps you should not worry about me, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, key to the North, becoming boring to Ramsay Bolton. You should worry about yourself. A kennel master's daughter can get quite boring quite fast."

She smiled a sweet, saccharine smile, and sent the girl on her way. After all, she had a wedding to prepare for.

The dress was a lovely Northern gown, one that she would have loved in any other circumstance. She still wore it with pride, and wished it was her father giving her away instead of the man who stabbed her brother in the back.

Roose Bolton walked her to his son, who waited with obvious excitement at the prospect of wedding her and bedding her. Roose Bolton read the vows. Roose Bolton sealed her fate, but it was Ramsay Bolton who was her husband, and Ramsay who would father her sons. Sansa played nicely that night, pretending to anticipate the bedding, pretending to be excited. It seemed to please Ramsay so much that he insisted they return to her bed chambers as soon as possible. Theon stayed in the kennels that night.

In the low-lit room, Sansa took control of the bedding by kissing him before he could push her onto the bed. His hands were rough and his kisses were bruising; she suspected that he liked pain in a strange way. And so she bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, he laughed, but the laughter stopped when she licked the blood from his lip and reached up to unpin her hair.

He took his own shirt off, and she could see faint remnants of scars on his chest. Indeed he was more manly than Joffery ever was, more Northern than any of the men she had been pushed towards in the south. She had to admit that he was rather attractive. After the last of her own clothing was discarded, he looked upon her lustfully and tried to flip her over onto her stomach. Before he could do so, she grabbed him by his hair and pulled his body onto hers. "I wish to look into your eyes when you bed me, my Lord Husband." She whispered, attempting to be seductive, attempting to be like one of the whores in King's Landing. It worked.

The bedding was still painful, but she refused to cry out. Instead she bit into his shoulder, and let her fingernails rake down his back, leaving trails of blood in their wake. He only seemed to enjoy her more because of it. When he finished, she was aching and ready to cry, but in the distance, a lone wolf howled and her resolve only hardened further. "That was wonderful, my Lord." He smiled, his sharp canine teeth glinting.

"Sansa, you are my wife now, you are to call me Ramsay." His hand caressed over her neck softly, causing her to shudder in revulsion. He believed it to be lust, and his smile only widened.

"Of course, Ramsay… would you wish to stay in my chambers? I find that the Northern nights are so cold that an extra body does wonders for warmth. I used to share my bed with my sister Arya when it got particularly cold." If he was surprised, he did not show it, and he got underneath the furs and pressed his body against hers. She fought the disgust that rose in her throat.

She slept fitfully that night, but she slept nonetheless.

As the initial weeks of their marriage began to pass by, Sansa learned things about Ramsay. She learned his favored drinks and meals and had them delivered to him, she learned his favored pastimes and learned about what they entailed. She learned what he enjoyed in the marital bed, and she did her best to imitate them. He seemed distrustful of her at times, but he seemed to like her too much to truly question it. He enjoyed bedding her, enjoyed the way she scarred him with her nails and bit him with her teeth, and in turn she was covered with bruised wrists and soreness between the thighs, but he never was violent with her. Especially since she always feigned pleasure when he touched her. It seemed that he preferred it when she inflicted pain upon him when they laid together.

He allowed her to roam Winterfell as she pleased as long as she always had a guard with her. She found that she did not mind it, and she spent much of her time in the Godswood, praying, or in what was once her mother's solar, sewing. When she made Ramsay a handkerchief, embroidered with a flayed man, his delighted smile and passionate kiss told her that he was nearly hers. The only person standing in the way of her fully controlling him was his whore, Myranda.

Sansa was not a violent woman, nor did she like to inflict pain on others. But to keep herself alive, there were things she would have to do. One night after he had spent himself inside of her, she let her head rest on his chest. "Ramsay, do you truly like the handkerchief?" she questioned innocently, turning her Tully blue eyes towards him.

"I love your devotion to your house," he said in return, his fingers tracing her spine languidly. "It was a fine gift, dear wife."

"Would you be willing to give me a gift in exchange?" He looked at her, confused but intrigued.

"And what would that be, Sansa?"

"Kill Myranda. And let me watch."

Sansa sat in the corner of Ramsay's bedchamber when Myranda was called in. The thin girl looked rather pleased with herself, with her eyes fixed on Ramsay's face. "Did you get bored of the little Stark bitch? Did you realize what you were missing?" She began to undress, but Ramsay put a hand up to halt her actions as he laughed a cruel, cold laugh. It was then that Myranda spotted Sansa sitting in the corner. Her face twisted in confusion. "What is the meaning of this?" she shrieked angrily, pointing an accusing finger at Sansa.

"Myranda, I have grown bored of you. And we both know well what happens when I grow bored of women." He snapped his fingers, and two Bolton guards came in, taking Myranda by her arms. She screamed, panic suddenly lighting in her face as she realized what was to become of her.

There was a burning shame of humiliation in Sansa's chest when she followed Ramsay through the wolfswood several miles from Winterfell, chasing Myranda, who was begging for mercy. But then she reminded herself that Myranda had done this to other women, that she wanted to do it to Sansa, and the burn disappeared as soon as it had come. The hounds followed closely, and even Theon was with them, silently observing and carrying Ramsay's assorted weaponry. But other than that, it was as if the traitor did not exist.

An arrow had gone through the girl's side, and she lay gasping on the ground. She begged her ex-lover for mercy, tried to remind him of what they once had. But he would hear none of it, and instead he turned to his wife.

"Sansa, would you like to finish her?" he asked, practically buzzing with anticipation. She nodded.

"Of course, Ramsay. How shall I do that?" her words were nearly drowned out by the barking out his hounds, but she found that she liked that sound better than Myranda's pathetic begging.

"Just tell them to Rip her. And say it with force or they don't listen… dogs are like that you know. They need a little… force." He kissed her violently then, the bloodlust igniting in his veins. Sansa directed her eyes to Myranda, whose face was streaked with tears and mud. But she felt nothing.

"Rip her!" she shouted, and the dogs killed the kennel master's daughter.

It was as she had predicted. After Myranda was dead, Ramsay was hers to control. He came to her every night, and every night she was disgusted to find that she began to get pleasure from their marital bed. It seemed that in his twisted way, that he loved her. She wondered if he loved her because she sealed his importance to his father, if he loved her because she killed Myranda, or if he loved her because she pretended to love him.

But the new world she had created was rattled when Lady Bolton announced her pregnancy. If Lady Bolton had a son, there was a chance that Roose would pass over Ramsay to give the North to the half-Frey child. At the mere thought, Sansa wanted them dead, and she was startled by how truly she wanted it to be so. But she would not have a half-Frey in control of her home. It was not to be borne.

"The maester says it will be a boy!" Ramsay raved as they lay together under the furs, fury in his eyes and vitriol in his voice. "And if it is, I shall be passed up for Fat Walda Frey's son! After all I have done for my father!" His chest heaved with barely controlled anger, and Sansa looked to him, head tilted and an idea flowering in her mind.

"She does not need to have the babe at all. Many women die during their confinements." Sansa whispered, letting treasonous thoughts warm her stomach. Newfound admiration bloomed in Ramsay's eyes and Sansa felt herself blush under his gaze.

"My lady…" he murmured, ardour lighting his features as he captured her mouth in a kiss that was gentle but fierce. "Would you…? Could you…?" he asked. She nodded, deepening the kiss. It was the first time they had lain together with her full and eager participation; she had enjoyed every minute of it. Guilt ate away at her like a poison, but she paid it no mind. After all, if guilt could kill, all of Westeros would be dead already.

As Ramsay went to battle with Stannis Bolton's forces two fortnights later, Sansa found herself wishing that he would return. And he did; the bad ones always come back. But she found that she was glad he had returned, and she celebrated in his victory over Stannis Baratheon. If Sansa ever took the time to think on her actions, she would find that she did not love Ramsay not in the way that he loved her, but she loved the control she had over him. She loved the control she had over the North, over her own life.

In the end, she poisoned Walda Bolton's honeyed cakes with Sweetsleep during the large woman's fourth month of pregnancy. She never awoke, and the Maester from the Dreadfort claimed that her heart was weakened by the pregnancy and the added weight. Roose Bolton mourned for a short period of time before focusing his energy on Ramsay and Sansa.

Sansa did get pregnant, it was inevitable. And although Myranda had once claimed that Ramsay had gotten bored with one girl because she was pregnant, he reveled in the fact that he had impregnated his wife and key to the North. He was careful with her, surprisingly tender, and Sansa could not keep her mind from thinking tenderly of him at times as well.

The harsh winter came, and there were rumors of Daenerys Targaryen in the East, and the Tyrells and the Lannisters battled in the south for the ugly Iron Throne. But in the North, Sansa found herself to be surprisingly content with her life as she controlled her husband to do her every bidding. He listened to her every opinion, and she loved the feeling that came over her when he asked for her thoughts on certain matters.

She discovered that she was carrying twins; and in the Godswood she prayed they would not take after their sadistic father. She prayed they would be good and kind like Robb and her father, but perhaps not so foolish as they. A secret part of her hoped they would be like Arya, fierce and honest Arya, dead before her time.

When word of the White Walkers spread to Winterfell and even further South, Sansa was nearing her due date. Ramsay led his men North towards the wall, among thousands of others who were travelling there to join in the fight from all over the realm. They said it would be a bloodbath.

She wondered if he would return, and she wondered what would happen to her if she did not.

The babes were born healthy and pink. One boy and one girl. The boy had dark hair, paired with beautiful Tully blue eyes, while her daughter had auburn hair like fire, and her eyes were the cold ghostly-grey of house Bolton. Roose suggested she name the boy for Ramsay's dead brother and his own dead son, Domeric. It pained her to do so, to pass over her father's name. She named her son Domeric Bolton as Roose had suggested, but she named her daughter Minisa Bolton, for her mother's mother. A good Tully name for her beautiful baby girl.

The fighting on the other side of the Wall was said to be harsh and violent, and Sansa wondered if Ramsay would ever meet his children. She found that deep down, she did not care. Her son's life meant that she had the heir to the North, whether Roose liked it or not. Yet paranoia filled her bones as she wondered if Roose would murder her now that she had produced a proper heir that he could train from birth.

She would not let them kill her, not in Winterfell, not when she had children to live for. She would kill him first. She had already proven she could do it. And if she had to, she would do it again.

When the raven came, announcing Ramsay's death, Sansa wept. The emotions she felt were conflicted. She was glad that he was dead, yet she found that she missed having someone who loved her so violently and ardently that he was willing to kill for her. But she did not have long to think on it.

The war turned the tide when Daenerys Targaryen rode from the East on her dragons, accompanied by Aegon. White Walkers are no match for dragon fire, and they burned to crips, leaving the realm safe as the dragon queen turned her attentions to King's Landing. It took less than four days for the entire seven kingdoms to have bowed at the feet of their new queen, and Sansa could tell that Roose Bolton was beginning to worry about his own standing in this dragon queen's eyes. It was common knowledge that he supported the Lannisters, that he orchestrated the deaths of the Starks, that he was a turncloak through and through.

Sansa slept with a dagger under her pillow, and when a man slipped into her room with the intent of killing her, and perhaps her daughter, she stabbed his throat and let him die on her floor.

Before the sun could rise, she went into Roose's bed chambers and slit his throat, only five words slipping off her tongue. "The Starks send their regards."

His men believed that the assassin in Sansa's own room had killed Roose first before going after her. She was Lady Bolton, and Winterfell was under her rule again.

It was hotly debated in the South whether or not Sansa would rule the North, but it was decided for her when her younger brothers returned seemingly from the dead. She allowed Bran to be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. She wanted nothing more than her family, and her son would inherit the Dreadfort when he came of age.

But Sansa never went to live in the Dreadfort. No, she stayed in Winterfell, helping to turn Rickon into a proper young man, and helping Bran rule their father's land. She had little interest in the South anymore, and her attentions were focused on her brothers and her children. Mere weeks later Arya returned to them as well.

She was fierce and battle hardened, a true Northern beauty who was at the head of an army of wolves. She had fought against the Others as well, and she admitted that it had been her who killed Ramsay, not a White Walker or a wight. "I had heard rumors of who he was, of what he did, of how he hurt women… I wanted to protect you." She had murmured sleepily on her first night in a real bed as Sansa had stroked the girl's birds nest hair. Sansa cried herself to sleep that night, reunited with her family.

The years trickled on, Bran eventually married Meera Reed, a crannogman girl who had protected him on his travels. Rickon proved to be more trouble than Arya ever was, but Sansa did not mind. A handsome blacksmith by the name of Gendry had appeared at the gates of Winterfell one morning, angrily asking Arya why she up and left him once more. After seeing them together for less than ten minutes, Sansa knew that her sister was in love, and that he loved her as well. Sansa had looked the other way when Arya married him in the Godswood several months later.

Minisa was a beautiful girl with her mother's fiery hair and smile. She held no malice or cruelty, and in a way she reminded Sansa of herself when she was a child. Although she did have her aunt Arya's penchant for marksmanship and horseback riding. Domeric had a long Stark face, with Tully blue eyes, and a shy smile; he loved animals, and he had quite the talent for singing. Neither child had the cruelty of their father in them, and for that, Sansa was thankful.

They grew quickly, strong and happy with the protection and love of the North. Nearly everyone ignored who their father was, and ignored the last name they bore. (Many people called them Minisa and Domeric Stark rather than Bolton, and Sansa went by Sansa Stark, never Sansa Bolton, she would never be a Bolton again).

Marriage proposals constantly filtered into Winterfell for Arya and Sansa, because it wasn't well known that Arya was already married to Ser Gendry Waters of the Hollow Hill, and they didn't realize that even though she was only two and twenty, she did not wish to marry again. She would if she was in love, but she loved none but her own family. She was half-Tully after all, and Family comes before Duty or Honor. Bran never forced her to do anything she did not wish to do, he loved and respected her far too much for that.

But eventually when Sansa did marry once more, it was to a man who many had suspected to be dead. But when he arrived at Winterfell and pledged his loyalty to the Starks, Sansa allowed herself to feel freely. She fell in love with Sandor Clegane, in spite of his scars and crassness, and he loved her truly and deeply, far more than her forced husband ever had. He would kill for her, he would die for her, and he truly loved her. Arya had long ago forgiven Sandor for what had happened at the Trident so many years before, and Arya got along with him quite well now that he was her sister's husband. Sansa was filled with a sort of divine joy.

The emotions she felt for him, the love that filled her up when she was with him, replaced what she had experienced with Ramsay. With Sandor, Sansa had two more children. And she watched as Winterfell was filled with life once more. Her children Minisa, Domeric, Eddard, and Catelyn played with Arya and Gendry's daughters, Lyanna and Alys, and even Bran's son Robb toddled after his older cousins.

Eventually Rickon was strategically married to one of the Florent girls from High Garden; and she was revealed to be just as wild and careless as he. Sansa watched as her youngest brother fell in love.

At times, when Sandor was asleep and Winterfell was silent, Sansa wondered what happened to Theon Greyjoy. He had been forced to go with Ramsay to fight the Others, and it was likely that he was dead, but she caught herself pitying him at times. Theon had not killed her brothers, and he had been violently punished, so horribly that he would never recover. Arya had told her that Jon had written, saying that he had seen Theon at the Wall after the fighting was over, but he didn't know where the traitor had gone after.

Sansa would never discover that he was in his sister's care. Yara Greyjoy had fought the Others, found her brother, and took him home. With Daenerys on the Throne, women became the rightful heirs if they were the eldest, and so she ruled the Ironborn and kept her brother close although many did not know his identity.

Sansa understood long before that life was not a song, she no longer held any delusions that it would be. But when she was with her family, and found that they were finally at peace, her heart could not help but sing.


End file.
